A personal account of motivations, sharing my journey to a goal - to express my passion for ‘grass roots’ football in its many forms / document the ‘untold stories’ of many of the ‘Park Footballers’ I have played with for 30 years / to combine my love of portraits, archiving ‘hidden histories’ of a unique ‘city by the sea’ called Brighton & Hove / then celebrate how this game has enhanced our lives – honouring the ‘Corinthian Spirit’ in the form of a published book.

Friday, 17 June 2016

This is an update just in case you are wondering what
I have been doing since my crowd funding bid ended for a publishing
project called ‘JUMPERS for GOALPOSTS – Stories of Grass Roots Football from Brighton
& Hove’ (working title); I am
glad to report that it has provided adequate finance to produce a decent &
stylish print run!

A deep ‘thank you’ goes to all of you that supported
me in this project, with your advice, honesty & arguments, volunteering time to tell me your stories, filming
interviews, helping with photography , copyrighting and making this a community collaboration that is focused upon our shared
passion for ‘a beautiful game’. These are elements that will guarantee a worthy
publication in the long run – and there is still time for you to contribute
your stories!

Over
the past 2 months I have been:

1.Training
in Photoshop / publishing techniques to provide printers with
a document that is accurate, entertaining as well as inspiring in a modern format.

2.Continued
to interview past and present ‘park
footballers’ (some with their children present)
mainly at my studio/office, by phone or in Al Campos on London
Road in Brighton (with coffee for treats) –discovering a rich seam of ‘indigenous Brightonians’, as well
as ‘recent settlers’ from all walks of life, which amounts to many inspiring
experiences and stories, so I am confident that the finished publication will
be very interesting and diverse.

3.Undertaken
a mixed media work of art I was awarded that will be
exhibited in The Turner Gallery this summer. This commission enables me to increase investment in addition to crowd
funding bid and publish even more books.

4.Completed
23 portraits of players in multimedia formats and posted
their portraits online for feedback. I have incorporated many different skills to make all these images unique in styles, so far: ceramic tile mosaic / pen and ink / pencil / felt pen & ink
dots; and also I recently purchased a wood burning tool that I will use to complete
a few other portraits and already completed a 'test run' by
decorating my ukulele with a portrait & pattern motif, having to do this outdoors as it sets off fire alarms - but it’s fun!

5.Selected
Launch Date in late September 2016 but this depends on
a) standard of work produced b) how many interviews have been completed c)
responses from my team that is helping with quality control. Mindful of importance to independently finance this project because normal publishing routes could diminish the quality,
style and function of the book. With this in view I have undertaken training in
another field of work that awards sufficient funds that also offers me time
to develop the project in a meaningful and timely way. It means that it may
take a while longer to produce but things of quality always take a bit more
time and effort …it’s a labour of love anyway...

6.Negotiating
with a community café in Poets Corner as an ideal space
for a launch party for the book, with adequate space for children to play,
families to enjoy barbecues / indoor buffets as well as room to play a little
footie. I will be checking how Keith’s launch for his book of poetry goes before
confirming the date.

7.Undertaken
a new training regime to get back in fitness incorporating
cycling, swimming, yoga & steaming and playing on Hove Lawns (Tue &
Thurs from 6.15 pm) again! This is great because playing there is one compelling
reason I elected to remain in Brighton after completing my studies here 30
years ago.

8.Arranged
with Rodney (the film maker that is attempting a documentary about grass
roots footie in Brighton) to use a drone to film some of the action at Preston
Park and East Brighton Park with a view to doing more at Hove Lawns.

9.Followed
up on the invitation from Head of Parks & Recreation
from the council as he responded so well to my initial contact him for an
interview but he has not responded to my efforts ever since April, so I am
assuming that his behaviour is indicating a polite rejection.

10.Taken a parachute jump in Devon
– a wonderful experience that puts life goals into a courageous frame, inspiring
me to be fearless in this project - my children’s births were the only
experiences that were better than jumping from 15,000 feet. I felt close to ‘God’
and was profoundly moved by seeing this planet from that height. My instructor let
me control our decent after our ‘flight’ and I felt the power of self
determination in a whole new way - elated with an overpowering sense of joy and
fear so exquisite that my eyes poured water all the way down until I kissed
this earth.

Questions below came about from my interviews with ‘park footballers’
which I am compiling for the publication – many found it easy to talk about why
they love grass roots football, a few found it difficult to articulate their
feelings, others didn't like to analyse for ‘fear of spoiling the experience of
playing’ but overall it has been exciting because most view it philosophically –
that it’s not just a game but a social function that reflects life.

One of my reasons for starting “Jumpers for Goalposts” is because I
think it is important that grass roots footballers (past and present) actually
record what it is we love about this beautiful game and how it impacts upon our
lives because it is our stories that inspires next generations – so I thought up
the following questions to help stimulate this response for everyone
participating in this project and welcome your responses:

oYour Name / nick name:

oYour favourite position

oWhere you began to play footie as a child

oWhy you came to this location (Brighton / UK
/ Europe)

oWhat are your feelings about other players?

oWhere your favourite place to play in
Brighton?

oWhat have you learned about playing
together?

oWhere do you come from, if not from
Brighton?

oHow far do you have to travel to / from
games & mode of transport?

oDescribe your perfect game

oDescribe your perfect move / goal

oWhat is your favourite team? Why this team?

oAll time favourite player – PAST &
PRESENT

oWHERE / WHEN was last game you visited

oWhat do your non playing friends and family
think of you playing regularly?

oDreaded Injuries! What happened? How did
you overcome them?

oWhat would you say to a youngster that is
considering doing park football?

oHopes for the future of grass roots
football -

oComments about this art process – make
sense? Why?

oHow have you / your group / your
relationships been influenced or changed over the years due to football?

Monday, 21 March 2016

Firstly, apologies to all those owners of cars I leafleted on
the way to a home game last Saturday – some of you may not be interested in
sharing their stories of ‘grass roots football’. But after sitting up all night
printing then cutting so many of them to size by blunt scissor hands - I placed
them under your window wipers in good faith.

It was disappointing approaching a stadium so close to my
home, having never visited there before, also questioning why it was so
difficult to find (at far end of East Brighton Park) - hustled in beside a
caravan site with a single solitary sign, as if it must remain a public secret ,
a beauty spot nestling in a valley.

I had come to promote ‘Jumpers for Goalposts’ but I was
immediately captivated by animated choruses and raucous voices that filled
entire area with banshee bedlam! At one moment intimidating, then another singing
anti homophobic chants - this was a dynamic fan base of dedicated people that
loved a ‘beautiful game’.

They came from all walks of life and made it immediately
clear that they would continue chanting whether or not ‘the Ultras’ were
winning or losing, they were galvanised and inspired into being a tough side to
beat and seemed to be individually enjoying a tussle against a lesser team that
looked to be ‘going dahn!’

A mid field player with an Italian sounding name was
illuminating a rowdy, gaudy game with infectious touches, balance, control and
flair, yet fearlessly sweating blood trying to win the ball back if
dispossessed; also a tall rangy black player that seemed to effortlessly win every
air borne ball, even after giving opposing players a head start by not using
his arms against them for leverage – both seemed to be doing ‘those little things’
that can cause one side to dominate another.

I followed invitation to mingle with the crowd after
speaking to friendly ground staff, ladies behind counters and wardens that
encouraged me to promote my project; and spending time in the sponsors section,
in the bar, in the crowd – talking with all manner of people from all over the
country – reminded me why I often prefer ‘grass roots football’.

I was taping flyers onto toilet walls, beneath sky TV screen
and sharing stories with punters in queue for chips & dips when a goal went
in, but I didn't mind – Westham were one-up against Chelsea, chocolate was on
sale at 50 pence per cup, I’d met someone that played for Liverpool Ladies and talked with a friendly photographer that everyone seemed to know and like called JJ Waller,
so my day was already fantastic.

As three men grunted in battle, a few yards away from us, trying
to wrought possession of a ball from each other on touch line, I heard that
there was a half-time fight in the away team changing room, so the stewards were
lining up to escort them off the field. This
fact seemed to excite me and I'm still trying to figure out why…

I shamelessly joined in with playground antics of the crowd
by continuously barracking the away goal keeper by shouting his first name,
even when the ball was far away, even when the players were leaving the field,
even as we left the ground, even without a care for the score – knowing that his taunted name would haunt his dreams of loosing on Saturday night.

Thursday, 3 March 2016

I've included a picture of me ‘in action’ to prove that I am still playing! Also to show that despite ‘advanced age’ we can still enjoy one of those what I call ‘Maradona Moments’ in a game – when your opponents seem to pause as if mesmerised by your ball control and you manage a deft touch, or to execute a difficult pass that shows foresight; subtle yet penetrative assertive movements that you can mindfully replay, trudging off the pitch or into dream land.

It is a useful picture because I have had terrible games this week – on Sunday I suffered one of those games when your side just cannot seem to string more than 3 passes together and the other side realises this very early in the game, so they seem to have an extra player to pass to, always in control, dancing past us like leprechauns on heat. It didn't get much better on Wednesday on the astro turf pitch (which I call ‘ash tray turf’ because of fine grains that collect like black sand or termites flying into your boots) : I almost lost my voice shouting ‘keep it on the floor!” and “keep it short!” but everyone, even the better players in my side were always trying to ‘beat the world by themselves’, needing extra touches of the ball before offering ‘hospital passes’ to fellow players – we got walloped 8-1 and topping that: I forgot my gloves so the game was followed by a painfully slow hard and bitter bike ride home in the blue fingered cold.

Trying to cycle with hands in pockets is not recommended in any coaching manual, it is depressing and becomes easy for one to begin to doubt if playing three times a week is advisable or even obsessive. Also, with both groin and lungs taking turns to complain about switching from heavy mud on to synthetic wet pitches, then to dry /sweat stained indoor gyms for ‘5 a side’ - is this realistic for ‘someone of my maturing age’?

My thoughts kept slipping back to the last time I saw my father. It was November 2014, he was resplendent with his favourite cloth cap across his chest, permanently asleep in his coffin, his grandchildren standing beside me like sapling trees; and yes, I was thinking about football! Not just because his cap reminded me of a cartoon of an infamous football fan called ‘Andy Cap’ (that used to festoon newspapers in my childhood), but also because his life was cut short by a disease that is related to poor diets and sedentary lifestyles, a disease that has attacked almost every ancestor in my family. I was asking myself a question: if I had not been playing football so regularly, would my children be looking down on me as I am doing at my father? Silent – knowing that pleadings and reprimands are fruitless, finally falling on deaf ears…

My children, now young adults, reminded me that he was in a coma or recovering from a stroke for so long they never could ask him anything and had been berating me for at least two years to stop smoking, to a point of desperation that pushed them to breech boundaries of parental respect – “it’s a stupid habit for an asthmatic!”

Something changed in me when his body was laid to rest - within 9 months I had given smoking up completely, by simply loosing the taste for it. But what else helped me dampen the habitual behaviours? Apart from gaining the use of my taste buds, heightened sense of smell and no longer fearing halitosis? It was the lovely sleep / dream / waking routines one gets from playing a full game, when your body says: ‘yyyyeeeeeeeaaahhhssss…that was gooooood – feel your body healing? Nice…’

But stopping smoking wasn't good for my football. My lungs humiliate me by forcing me to double over like someone hit me in my stomach and they keep shouting ‘payback!’ every time I run with or without a ball; or even worse as I gasp for air they murmur as if in a defiant whisper ‘you deserve this! Fool!’ I was in the middle of one of those mazy wall passing runs I used to love doing when I was younger - bursting away from a defender with a neat side step to gain a couple yards, then rather than try to beat the next player I play a ‘one / two’ and get into the ‘the box’, the ball is now laying there naked, begging me to kick it low and hard into bottom corner of the net when “gasp!” my lungs (both of them) stopped me dead - declaring ‘think you get away with abusing us didn't you? Well take this!’ and my heart joined chorus by banging a Morse code on my rib cage ‘and take that!’

The dreaded possibility of playing ‘walking football’ becomes a morbid reality but in between my guilty gasps for a second wind, even after acknowledging that I sacrificed my health for briefly lived respites that comes from fleeting pleasures of puffed smoke, despite the loss of form of my typical speedy runs, I am grateful for the extended quality of life that playing football has given me.

Fellow abstinent friends say that it will take months, even years before my lungs stop complaining and return to working normally with no more threats of strike action. But you know what? I eat exactly what I like when I like and I weigh the same as I did as a young man; I confidently burn off unwanted calories and sweat out toxins by doing something I love throughout the year. It’s all about balance really…

Tuesday, 1 March 2016

"We nearly broke up on our first date!" Although I was born blessed with 2 attributes compatible to love football - the love of Art and of running very fast.At 5 years old, I appreciated the beauty of the human form in motion that is evident in every sport, in dance, even falling off a horse. With boundless energy, I loved to run really quick, then suddenly stop, to look back and see where I'd come from and if my shadow had caught up with me - it was like time travel. I was so speedy that I would switch to running backwards in 100 yard dashes to laugh at the panting efforts of my competitors trying to beat me as I crossed the line.They matched me against older kids until a girl nearly 6 years older than me managed to pip me on the line - she became my first crush, my Eartha Kitt cat woman.Like in many romances,the celestial alignment has to overcome obstacles before true love is formed - I nearly rejected footballs attempts to seduce me from the very start.My dad had a few workmates around watching a game on TV, they all seemed agitated, shouting , arguing , pointing and using curse words that I didn't understand. Our family lived up a hill in a suburban house in Wembley at the time - slightly intimidated with no place to sit but the laminate floor, I absent mindedly wandered out the front door and down the street. It wasn't long before I realised that something very unusual was happening around me - outside was a strange silence with not a single person, animal or car moving in the street, or in gardens, all the way down it into the town, a ghost town, not one sound apart from a distant roar like listening to seagulls through covered ears.I kept walking further towards that invisible boundary were adults ask what you are doing unaccompanied if they discover you, but close enough to Billy Whiz back home in minutes. Still. Nobody. Not a milkman, not a street cleaner, no taxis or waiting prams outside a shop, or an old lady feeding pigeons - nothing, no-one, I became apprehensive, unknowingly scared as only an innocent child can be, paralysed with fear of the unknown I stood in the middle of the street in this formerly bustling town until the seagulls became a roar. Hordes of people started streaming out from everywhere and screaming was heard behind curtains, spilling out from front rooms, out the doorways, everyone seemed just plain mad if not drunk - sheer shock shook me into action! I had to get home to warn my parents and my little sister that they were in imminent danger. Terrified, I ran straight home without pausing. The steep hill didn't matter - they had not even noticed that I had gone, and before I could warn them I found out that England had just won something called World Cup, and I thought 'if this game makes people act this crazy - I want nothing to do with football'- placing it below 'avocados' in my childish list of dislikes.Until Mr. Bateman, a red faced , track suited , sporting school teacher and proud Welshman (who constantly referred to the Rhonda Valleys, so much so that I was compelled to visit it in adulthood) barked at me 'Your quick Edi. You'll be the sweeper'. I didn't know what that was but it was the first time any teacher had shown confidence in me. Pride got me out on the field before anyone else was ready. Unfortunately neither was my tender ankle or the frozen leather ball ready - kicking it powerfully without knowing how , I heard a starter pistol crack and my ankle was severely fractured. 'Stupid boy!' Mr. Bateman said 'You're relegated to full back until you've walked it off!' By the end of the game I could barely walk at all. The team trudged off and I was stranded.Up to this point in my life I didn't know what my sister was for; other than being under orders to protect her by my parents, a heroic job I cherished, I was her 'big brother' after all, no-one dared to harm her for fear of my flying fists; but this injury humbled me, a short journey home averaging 30 minutes became 2 hours, with my little sister supporting me every inch on the way, showing how she could be strong for me too - and I realised how deeply I loved her.For almost 7 weeks my leg was in plaster, I learned that injuries were not just something John Wayne would mop and staunch with torn cloth from a shirt, tie it off , put jacket back on showing bullet holes - it meant somebody helping you in / out of pyjamas, helping you upstairs to the toilet and waiting outside to get you back down again.I vowed that I'd never play again. Stick to athletics - with no late tackles; or how about long jump? Doesn't involve heading frozen leather balls.So there it is, although I hated football it had already taught me some very important things about ambiguity - that there was a beautiful place in UK called Wales / that I could experience 'feelings' for another person that was both powerful yet undermining / that I could love and respect my sister for who she was / that people could be passionate without causing danger and celebrate / about mortality and fleeting moments of creativity and that Healing is like tomorrows - always possible.

Friday, 12 February 2016

But I was in
a different head-space then – my children were 10 years younger and I was more focused
upon survival. Community Development work is not a get rich quick scheme, yet
this activity was something that my heart and soul was happy and at home with –
sometimes you just have to accept your vocation.

I remember the moment it dawned upon me that I should see
this idea through to the end - success and failure didn't matter, this is what
happened to me:

I was standing, waiting in the middle of a rainy windswept
grassy field, bending double with cold snap of winter turning my shins into
goose bumps, trying to get my new football boots on without letting my feet
touch damp icy ground, as Graham pulled up on his bike.

We could see 4 other players trudging over in the distance ‘looks
like we've got at least 3-a-side!’

He noticed that I noticed that he was trying to change into his
boots without his toes touching the ground and we broke into a kind of laugh
that is fixed on faces because of driving rain, ‘Look at us. We must be crazy!’
he said

… ‘Yeah…’ I replied gasping into the wind ‘we must look
really stupid!’

‘Yeah Graham. I can’t help it. I just love it! I heard it
raining last night so I thought “let’s rest today” but I woke up and I knew the
ground would be soft – I get these feelings in my legs. There was nothing going
to stop me playing today…’

His two son’s joined us; reporting that we could get 7 a
side when their friends arrived – they had all just finished a game that
morning but were afflicted with the same ‘football gene’ Graham had passed to
them via Man U – they still had those ‘feelings in their legs’ too, with similar
knobbly knees like his, and I slowly realised that I had witnessed them grow up,
from gangly teenagers, then right up through Uni, now fully matured into
working class men with hand dog stubble – I’d seen this by increments, almost exact
in regular 2 weekly intervals, for years and over seasons; acknowledging that
not long from now, on a day like this, they might be bringing their own
children here to play, with similar yet littler knobbly knees …

It was not an epiphany. Sometimes I catch myself gasping
with joy on a beautiful sunset. No, it wasn't like that – I was not emotional;
it was recognition, like seeing a crocus in January. It was a sign, a ‘calling’
to honour this cycle of life experiences that was evolving before my eyes like
chapters.

Some other students joined us, younger men, some with really
good close control, others with a mean turn of pace, a nice mix of ball skills,
enough for a worthwhile challenge.

Enough for us all to convert to the full size pitch. The sun
broke through and briefly we could see far enough ahead for long passes. We
could feel its heat soften the grass, turning our sweat into vapour trails and Preston
Park became a theatre of dreams.

I had a peach of a game. Some of my touches amazed me
because my thoughts were somewhere else. By the time I pulled my bike up the
path to my home door – I had decided.

Well let’s be honest – I didn't know exactly what I had decided. All
I knew is that I was going to devote myself to the purpose I have outlined to
you; dedicating my creativity, collaborative talents, practical skills and experience to
the task.

About Me

I am a qualified Art Therapist, with 20 years experience community working, building holistic skills by working in Youth Offending, Adult Mental Health, Anti Domestic violence strategies, Men & Fathers development (ABandofBrothers Mentor for 4 years), family support and multi-agency trainer for statutory as well as voluntary agencies.

Also, an established artist regularly exhibiting in London and across east Sussex.